Sometimes I dissect the
meaning of things; forget
the blushing cheeks of the
letter S, that charming sing-
song voice of C.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Can’t count the distance be-
tween two charging thoughts
like high school football players
running towards each other
with a vague sense of
RESPONSIBILITY and
without reason.

evolution //
revolution //
the constitution //

We tie words together
SIDE-BY-SIDE in a string of
handsome lullabies.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Only the nuance of dancing
syllables
and referenced equality –
better that than anything else

though discrimination sounds
mighty pleasant to the ears
wish it meant something
entirely different.

I don’t think I know
what I’m talking about.

Only write so that my fingers
dance, not much to say only want
to feel muscles move, hear the
sweet tune of crushing ailments
cursing what-ifs.

That terrific acting performance
done by each insecurity slipping
off of the tongue, down to my long
thin fingers with a bouquet of flowers
at the end.

I do not know what this poem
is about.

Only know what I meant to say //
but got carried away //
in the poetry play. //

Not a complaint, oh surely
this is a nod to the dreamers
who wish on the brightest star
scream nothing much into a
blank sheet of paper just to
send it off in a red dress —

flowers blooming

May 1, 2016

petrified petal from the flower once
grew in her mother’s womb
dipped in honey and nectar-
infused with morning dew – a treat
for the bees–

falls.
spinning in the air
like a dancer pirouettes but
clumsier
a clown in a tutu
playing slapstick for the kids.

the past is a place
filled with secrets.
it is: a snowy wonderland of lost footprints.
do not tread with caution
better to leave what’s forgotten forgotten.

Or

the petal makes landing
on ground without sound
crushed under the weight
of something.

Pay Day

May 1, 2016

On pay day
I read poetry
listen to the crooning
tunes of decades past.
Find classic novels hidden
in dusty cabinets and
really relate.

Most days
I do not care
to open my eyes.
Too cold for a jog and I
do not like the rain.
These days my pants
sag with empty pockets
except
for the dust of dirty
tissues.

But
on pay day
New York water
soaks my socks
drowns the spaces
between my toes
when I splash.

Don’t care much about
the dirt, only
the feeling.

I quote Maya Angelou
on these days
shop for exotic
teas with odd
fervor
research romantic
European getaways.

Wonder
what it might be like
to be a heroine
of great value
like the feminists
in story books and
on the history channel.

Wonder if money
concerns them.

It is for sixteen days
that I make plans.
So much to see
so much to do on
pay day. And so

I listen to old music
wait for the familiar
steps of a woman
who
delivers the checks.

Today

Maya sings
through the bars
of her cage

carrying the
sound through
my own walls
of existence

splashing in the
New York rain.

Tomorrow…